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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26635315">we'll talk about the weather</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinilocIsland/pseuds/MinilocIsland'>MinilocIsland</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>SKAM (Norway)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Fluff and Smut, Journalist!Isak, M/M, Musician!Even, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, Strangers to Lovers, yes this is a trope fest!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:08:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,943</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26635315</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinilocIsland/pseuds/MinilocIsland</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Isak’s got this. Of course he’s got this. </p><p>It isn’t the first time he’s interviewed a hot guy, and it won’t be the last.<br/>He’s a professional, after all. Always is.</p><p>That is, until the unpredictable autumn weather puts a stop to his well-laid plans.</p><p> </p><p>Birthday fic for Ghostcat!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Best AUs, Isak and Even in other universes</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>we'll talk about the weather</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/gifts">Ghostcat</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, a good while ago D and I started talking about our mutual love for aged-up professional AU:s, and somewhere along the way she tried to talk me into writing a music journalist AU, about which I said something like "sure, when I'm finished with these other five fics I'm attempting to write".<br/>That was, obviously, a lie. HA!<br/>Here you go, my dear. Birthday deceit! Overflowing with tropey cheese! Just as you like it ;)</p><p>Lots of thanks to the lovely ashotofjac and modestytreehouse for reading this through for me, this is fic is so much better thanks to you.</p><p>I hope you'll like your gift, D, and that you'll have the best birthday. You're awesome ❤️<br/>(And yes, the title is a nod to The Sugarcubes' "Birthday". Of course.)</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a different chill to the air here. </p><p>Isak notices it as soon he steps out of the taxi. Getting out of the airport earlier, stumbling into the car half asleep, he’d been too out of it to feel it, but now it’s obvious. The cold scent of ocean, of winter.</p><p>It never gets this raw in Oslo.</p><p>He gazes up at the hotel facade: an elegant, imposing four-story art nouveau building, white marble stairs on the outside and a grey hushed lobby on the inside. Expensive in that subtle manner, with black marble decorations and several low-lit lamps on the desk.</p><p>He nods at the woman behind the reception desk and checks the message from Noora again on his way to the elevator. </p><p>
  <em> 13.00. Room 313.  </em>
</p><p>And, below that, a thumbs up.</p><p>
  <em> You’ve got this. </em>
</p><p>Isak knows it’s only meant as encouragement, but he still huffs.</p><p>Of course he’s got this. </p><p>If he’d been ten years younger, he’d have been over the moon about this. Both over snatching a huge interview right under his co-workers’ noses, but also for being trusted with it. Twenty-year-old Isak would probably have booked an earlier flight here and a later flight home so he’d have the time to visit the Rockheim museum—probably a bar or two too.</p><p>It’s not as if he isn’t excited. He definitely is. But it is as it is with every job, he supposes. The glamour fades with the years. He’s here, he’s gonna do his job, he’s gonna do it really fucking good—as usual—and then he’ll go home. Done and done by eight o’clock, and tomorrow will be a new day.</p><p>He adjusts his shoulder bag, heavy with all the printouts and cut-out articles he was supposed to reread on the plane instead of sleeping. Not that it matters—since Isak is the thorough sort, he has most of them memorized anyway. </p><p>Plus, he hasn’t exactly lived under a rock for the past decade. </p><p>Back in Norway for the first time in ten years, Even Bech Næsheim has decided to give only one interview. The details of exactly how Noora managed to bag it are still unclear to Isak, as is the fact that it was assigned to him—but he’s not the one to look a gift horse in the mouth. </p><p>On top of it all, he’s been given a whole three hours. It’s a lot compared to the usual—not like the promotional tours where the reporters stand in line for their twenty minutes each. </p><p>It’s a good thing. It’ll give a chance for those things he normally doesn’t have the time for. </p><p>The silences. The observations of what someone does when left to their own devices for half a minute, the small tics and habits that show after a couple of hours when you don’t keep your guard up anymore.</p><p>It’s its own sort of challenge. Not stating already well-known facts (in this case: bipolar, pansexual, really fucking tall) but scraping on that surface and then more. Trying to get to those layers where you can believably paint someone’s picture. Use those four pages to make the reader feel like they’ve met the person described. As if it was <em> them </em> who were there, and not Isak.</p><p>That’s what he’s here for. </p><p>The astonishment from when Even had declared that he was going solo hasn’t settled yet, even six months later. Eight increasingly successful years with <em>The Ten Percent</em> had made him a name not only in Norway, but all of Europe, and then more. Five studio albums under the belt, the fascination for their success was still on its height when Even suddenly made it known that he was leaving. And, on top of that, that he was going to tour Norway on his own during the fall. Ten sold-out shows, all in small venues, the first appearances in his home country since he left for London in his early twenties.</p><p><em>The Ten Percent</em> were never exactly front page material for the tabloids—their melodic but noisy punk-pop maybe wasn't accessible enough—but within the Norwegian music community, this is big. Huge, even. And there's something to be said about a lead singer nudging the two meter mark and who has eyes that pierce through any page. </p><p>Even if his research has mostly extended to Even’s music, Isak hasn't been able to avoid the less refined headlines as well. Some speculating if someone at home has finally managed to tie Norway’s own rockstar down as the reason for him returning, which, fine. It’s to be expected. </p><p>It’s not like Isak’s gonna focus on those things anyway. He’s not working at VG anymore—thank God—even if he knows there are still copies to be sold, ads to be plugged, when working for a niche music magazine.</p><p>He’ll see. Maybe, at the end. It’s not like he can afford for Even to clam up from the start. </p><p>As the elevator works its way up, Isak checks his reflection in the matte bronze mirror. It bears clear evidence of his early morning: fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the stubble that’s somehow managed to regrow since last night’s shave. His hair stands up slightly on one side as a consequence of his open-mouthed, neck-bent nap on the flight.</p><p>The elevator pings, and he makes one final attempt to flatten his fringe with his hand. It’s as futile as ever.</p><p>The walls of the fourth floor corridor are as grey as in the lobby, and the thick carpet hushes his steps to nothing. Isak counts the numbers on the doors until he’s reached the right one. </p><p>A deep breath before he lifts his hand, and knocks.</p><p>At this point, Isak’s met enough celebrities that he doesn’t get starstruck or intimidated anymore. Only a little tense, on edge. A bit like stage nerves, he supposes.</p><p>Because, when it comes down to it, this is his stage. His short time to give his everything. </p><p>After all, the absolutely largest chunk of the job isn’t this. It’s not even the writing, contrary to what a lot of people think. It’s the research, the careful phrasing of questions. All the long non-glamorous hours in front of the computer. The groundwork.</p><p>But this? This is his limited time to shine.</p><p>So, he’s not nervous exactly—but still, as the door opens and Even stands there in a wrinkled dark grey t-shirt and slim black jeans, big-eyed and even taller than Isak imagined, there’s a hint of dryness at the back of his throat. </p><p>“Hi. Isak Valtersen. From <em> Rundgang.” </em></p><p>Even’s eyes widen, open mouth slowly turning into a tentative smile. “Yes. Isak. Hello.”</p><p>There’s wrinkles on one side of Even’s face, and unlike in any picture Isak’s seen of him, he isn’t wearing any eyeliner. His hair, usually immaculately swooped up, lies tousled on top of his head in an unruly mop with one strand falling over his forehead. It’s probably completely unintentional, but it makes him look like he just stepped right out of a corny bedroom photoshoot.</p><p>So he’s hot in real life too. Hotter. </p><p>Not that it matters. This isn't the first time Isak's interviewed a good-looking guy, and it won't be the last.</p><p>As Even takes a step back into the room, Isak recognizes other, more familiar details: the thin bracelet strings around one wrist, the watch around his other. His angled shoulders in perfect counterpoint to his slender waist. </p><p>“Come in.” Even turns, long legs loping over the fluffy carpet, and Isak follows him through the entryway and into a bedroom that looks like someone has lived in it for a whole week rather than just one night. There are notes and books scattered all over: on the armchairs, the bedside table, on the windowsill that’s deep enough for two people to sit on. The bed’s unmade on one side, sheets wrinkled and pillow sunk down in the way that indicates that someone slept in it not long ago.</p><p>“I promise, I hadn’t forgotten you were coming,” Even casts Isak a bashful grin over his shoulder. “I, eh, just fell asleep.”</p><p>“That’s allowed.” Isak shrugs, and swallows. “Late night, right?”</p><p>“Kind of. Although I try to get to bed on time after shows nowadays.” Even bends down over one of the armchairs beside the table, picking up the clothes littering it and throwing them onto the bed. “Were you there?”</p><p>“Couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” Isak casts a glance at the open trunk on the floor. Clothes in a heap, overflowing it, an open necessities bag full of different-colored jars. A hair dryer. “I’m gonna be there for your Oslo show though.”</p><p>“The Saturday one?” Even looks up. “Or Sunday?”</p><p>“Sunday.” Isak leans his hand on the armchair’s back. “Final night and all that.”</p><p>“They’re usually the best.”</p><p>“They are.”</p><p>Even grins, and gestures to the chair Isak’s leaning on. “Please, have a seat.” </p><p>As he sits down, Isak takes the opportunity to glance at Even getting comfortable. Watches him lean back in his chair, fold one long leg on top of the other, and drag a hand through his hair.</p><p>Maybe it’s because of the recent nap, or because most of the live footage Isak’s seen of Even is from his shows, with the full onstage energy, but he seems more relaxed than Isak would’ve expected. Less...mannered.</p><p>“Do you mind?” Isak puts his phone face up on the table, opening the voice recorder app. “It’s okay if you don’t want it. It’s just easier to quote you correctly.”</p><p>“Not at all.” Even shrugs. “I’m used to it.”</p><p>Isak points at a book lying on the table between them. “Karin Boye?”</p><p>“Yes.” Even raises his eyebrows. “Have you read her?”</p><p>“My mother did. A lot. But I haven’t in a long time.”</p><p>“I find her poems both settling and unsettling.” Even rests one wrist on top of the other, long fingers hanging down by his knee. “Contradictory. I guess you could call them...inspiring.”</p><p>“Some people might call your music contradictory too.”</p><p>“Maybe it is.” Even bites his lip, looking up to the side and then right at Isak. “Do you think it is?”</p><p>Quite unlike <em>The Ten Percent'</em>'s mostly straightforward punk-pop, Isak’s hasn’t been able to fully wrap his head around Even’s solo music. The record has only been out for a month, but it’s been running warm at the office of Rundgang. And it’s not bad, not at all. Deceivingly attainable in that sense that at first listening, it sounds quite accessible. Simple in a good way—melodic, likeable. The kind of music you instantly agree with, but that you don’t necessarily want to listen to again and again—if it wasn’t for that evasive quality. A hint of dissonance in the distance that Isak has never really been able to put his finger on, that’s kept drawing him back. </p><p>He’s still not sure he knows why, but he does like it.</p><p>“I do.” Isak nods, slowly. “There’s that sense that you’re not telling us everything with it. That there are layers underneath that counter its appearance, layers you can’t see unless you really listen.”</p><p>The smile blooming over Even’s face feels like a reward. “I like that.”</p><p>“Like <em> A Song Unsung. </em> The melody is very sweet, but the lyrics hint at tragedy without really saying it. It’s a riddle you want to know the answer to.”</p><p>“It’s funny that you say so, because that’s exactly what it is.” Even leans forward.</p><p>“A riddle?”</p><p>“Yeah. Kind of. I was sitting at Schiphol waiting for my plane when this young woman sat down across from me and had a conversation on her phone with someone, and I couldn’t understand what it was about. She sounded so happy when she was talking, about decorating an apartment and someone’s birthday, but her face was…ashen. Like a journey in grief. It didn’t add up.”</p><p>“Did you talk to her?” </p><p>“No, she just rose and kept talking, and then she walked away. And then they called my flight. I never found out how the call ended, but I kept thinking about it the whole flight.”</p><p>“You like to study people.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Even nods, slowly. “Especially when they’re alone in their own world. When they have no one to mirror them.”</p><p>“So, now that you’re gone solo, do you have anyone to mirror you?”</p><p>“That’s a good question.” Even runs his hand through his hair. “Not really?”</p><p>“Is it lonely?”</p><p>“I don’t know if it’s lonely, but—different? Sort of like a...divorce? Like you have to find yourself again. Painful, but maybe necessary?”</p><p>Isak leans forward in his chair. “Is that how you’d describe your decision to go solo? Like a divorce?”</p><p>“Very metaphorically.” Even laughs. “We’re still friends. Shared custody of our children, the songs.”</p><p>“No hard feelings.”</p><p>“No hard feelings. But it’s difficult, sometimes. Suddenly, I have to decide everything on my own. I haven’t decided things on my own since…since I don’t know.”</p><p>“You’re grown up now.”</p><p>“Finally.”</p><p>Even wiggles his eyebrows—a gesture that doesn’t really look cool at all. It catches Isak off guard in its unexpectedness, and he laughs, surprised.</p><p>“You’re laughing.” Even’s eyes crinkle. “I made the star reporter laugh.”</p><p>“The star reporter.” </p><p>“Aren’t you?” Even lifts his chin. “I was told they’d send their best man.”</p><p>“Of course I’m the best.” Isak shrugs. “I just didn’t know I was a <em> star. </em> But, fine. I’ll take it.”</p><p>“You should.” Even bites his lip, eyes shining. </p><p>Objectively, Even is good-looking. Isak knows this. Not only because of the repeated more or less concealed thirst articles in other, less refined magazines than his own—he has eyes, and knows what he likes—but it’s also the classic things. Things that would appeal to anyone. High cheekbones, that sharp line of jaw, lips so full that they border on ridiculous. Shiny hair, legs for days, all that. </p><p>It’s different though, having Even’s stare in its full intensity so close and directed right at him. </p><p>It’s funny. To Isak, for every picture he’s seen of Even, every interview, every stage photo, he seems like such a cool guy. Careful to always keep his hair styled in that borderline ridiculous quiff, always with that precise eyeliner, sunglasses, the whole package. But, like this, he seems surprisingly unafraid to let his guard down. It might be a very calculated, well-practiced act, but Isak gets the feeling that Even is being himself. </p><p>He looks down at his notepad. </p><p>The questions he wrote down beforehand don’t seem right anymore. In Even’s vibrant presence, they feel basic. Generic.</p><p>But it’s not Isak’s fault that his head is empty. If he plows through a few of these, he might get back on track again.</p><p>He takes a deep breath, and looks up. Restarts, and throws out a few simple questions, like what it’s like to tour his home country for the first time in ten years and has he been to Trondheim before? <em> Yes </em> . What does Norway mean to him? <em> A lot of things. Home. Memories. Bad and good. </em> And Oslo? <em> The same. But amplified. </em> Amplified how? <em> Concentrated? It has it all.  </em></p><p>Isak isn’t too sure about that exactly, but he nods, taking his notes. Shifts position, and leans forward. </p><p>“Rumor has it that you’re moving back there.” </p><p>“Rumor says a lot of things.” Even shrugs. “You’re a reporter, you know that.”</p><p>“I do.” Isak holds Even’s gaze, assessing it.</p><p>This is either the point where he backs away, or where he chooses to push. In a few seconds, the moment will be gone. </p><p>The arm slung over the chair’s back, the slight tilt to Even’s head is what makes him finally decide. </p><p>“But it’s my job to try to find out how much substance there is to them.”</p><p>Even bites his lip, considering. Then, a smile. “You’re good.”</p><p>“People tell me so.” Isak knits his hands together around his knee with a shrug. </p><p>“Cool.” Even mirrors him, leaning forward so that their faces are a mere half meter apart. There’s little lines around his eyes that Isak suspects would come out when he laughs. An honest-blue sincerity that Isak wants to hold on to. “But…I won’t tell you.”</p><p>“So I’m just gonna have to wait and see?” Isak does his best faux-indifferent opening of hands, smiling.</p><p>“Nice try.” Even raises his eyebrows. “But no. I’m not telling you that. Next question.”</p><p>He leans back in his chair again, watching Isak with a neutral expression. Not unfriendly, but hard to read.</p><p>Isak decides to play it safe.</p><p>“So, on the subject of the motherland.” He mirrors Even, leans back in his armchair but makes sure to hold his gaze. “Now that you’ve returned, is there anything you’ve rediscovered? Something you appreciate about your home country that you didn’t before?”</p><p>“That’s an interesting question.” Even leans forward again. “Because...in a way, I’ve seen everything here before.”</p><p>“Okay. How so?”</p><p>“Well.” Even gazes out into the room, teeth biting down on his lower lip. “Since I’ve lived so many lives.”</p><p>“Okay?” Isak licks his lips.</p><p>“Don’t you believe in reincarnation, Isak?” Even’s eyes are on him again, open and round. </p><p>“Ehm.” Isak clears his throat, but Even continues.</p><p>“I helped build this hotel in 1870, you know.”</p><p>“You did.” Isak sucks in his upper lip. </p><p>“Yes. I was a poor miner’s son, trying my luck in the big city, but...” The look in Even’s eyes is on the verge of sad now. “It didn’t end well. An iron beam hit me in the head and crippled me. And then, in my next life, I died of the flu when I was five.”</p><p>He looks up at Even, at his wrinkled forehead. “That’s…too bad.”</p><p>“Mm.” Even nods solemnly, looking down in his lap, and Isak takes a deep breath before noticing that Even’s shoulders are shaking slightly. What the fuck. Is he <em> crying? </em></p><p>He’s just about to stretch out his hand and ask if he’s okay when Even lifts his head and squints up at him, mouth all teeth in a silent, delighted grin and eyes half moons of pure joy.</p><p>“Isak. I’m fucking with you.”</p><p>“Fuck off.” Isak’s professional instinct to never step out of line is momentarily forgotten. “What the fuck.”</p><p>“I can’t believe you bought that.” Mirth glitters in Even’s eyes as he leans forward, elbows on his knees.</p><p>“I didn’t exactly-” Isak starts, but it’s feeble. He rolls his eyes, settling back in his chair. </p><p>A toe taps his under the table. Isak looks up.</p><p>“Give me your hand and I’ll tell you all about your past lives.” Even’s eyebrows seem to have garnered a life of their own, undulating, and Isak can’t help that he grins.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s gonna go real quick.” </p><p>“Not a believer?” Remnants of laughter still color Even’s face, but the way he cocks his head to the side makes Isak want to answer truthfully.</p><p>“Nah.” He shrugs. “It never really stuck with me.”</p><p>“Yeah, me neither.” Even leans back in his chair again. “But. Okay. Where were we?”</p><p>Which leads them into yet another retelling of Even visiting an old mine up in Røros, describing how he had to bend double to fit into the working. And it hits Isak after a while—how this whole story was a means for Even to get not himself, but Isak back on track. To ease them both into the light, easy conversation from before. To let Isak know that even if Even doesn’t want to answer the too personal questions, they’re good. They can continue.</p><p>Even’s voice is somehow deeper when he talks than when he sings, the dark, velvety cadence of it pleasing in a way that makes Isak want to listen. He hums, nods, jots down the odd note, but mostly he lets the voice recorder do its job, and keeps his eyes on Even’s face.</p><p>It’s an expressive face.</p><p>A tiny part of Isak thinks he might have been a bit quick to judge Even beforehand. Another part thinks about how easy this feels, despite it being on the job. How surprisingly comfortable it is to lean back and listen to Even’s deep, musical voice, watch his large hands underscoring his words, his lips close around the rim of the glass when he takes a sip of water. </p><p>Now and then, there’s a pause. </p><p>It’s one of Isak’s favorite means—pauses. The way it makes the air grow heavier until the interview subject often feels like they have to fill the silence and blurt something out. Sometimes, pauses give birth to the most interesting admissions. Not-always-thought-out sentences that set off others, and then others.</p><p>The pauses with Even are different though. They’re poignant, sure, but not uncomfortable. More expectant than nervous. Isak’s used to being the one on the lookout, the one who figures the other one out, but somehow, with Even, he has the feeling of being assessed back just as much. </p><p>Even doesn’t sit back in his chair, but leans forward on his elbows as if he wants to make sure his words are coming through. Mostly, it’s Even talking, of course, but when he pauses, or when Isak asks him something or interjects, Even stares at him with wide eyes, not as if it’s part of his promotional deal to do this interview, but as if he really wants to listen. As if Isak’s questions are interesting, and he wants to answer them. As if he finds <em> Isak </em> interesting.</p><p>Secretly, Isak admits to himself, he likes it. He genuinely likes it. And he can admit to it, simply because it doesn’t mean anything. In an hour, they’ll be done, and he’ll go home and that’ll be the end. Perhaps he’ll meet Even again at some event or concert and they’ll nod at each other as in, <em> Hey, it’s you. We had a pretty good one in Trondheim once.  </em></p><p>If this had been a different situation, Isak knows he’d have done his best to prod, to see if there’s any interest back. To try those little carefully flirty lines and touches that usually gets him where he wants pretty quickly.</p><p>But this is work, and that’s where it ends. He’ll bite it down and rub one out in the shower tonight. Nothing more than that.</p><p>They don’t touch upon the more personal questions again, and Isak doesn’t really mind. He’s gonna have enough material to paint a pretty decent portrait of Even anyway. </p><p>The hours pass quickly. At one point, Isak glances at the bedside clock and discovers, surprised, that their time is up. Has been for twenty minutes.</p><p>He looks out the window and sees that the sky has turned dark, and that it’s snowing.</p><p>“What?” Even says, turning and rising from his chair. It doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds before Even sits with one knee on the windowsill and hands on the glass. Like an excited child. “Isak. Look.”</p><p>The surprised smile he casts Isak over his shoulder is overflowing with delight, and the rush of fondness that fills Isak is almost irritating.</p><p>“Shit,” Isak deflects. “I hope my flight home isn’t cancelled.”</p><p>“Aw. You’re so romantic.” Even grins at him. “Have you ever seen snowflakes this big?”</p><p>Isak hasn’t. He’s probably not seen this many of them at the same time either—the street outside is barely visible, only the outline of a lamp post like a faint shadow and the odd car moving very slowly along the snowed-over street.</p><p>“Don’t you have a plane to catch too? You’re playing in Bergen tonight.”</p><p>“I am.” Even chews his lip. “I was thinking…maybe we could share a taxi? To the airport?”</p><p>It isn’t weird. It’s just a taxi. </p><p>Perhaps not the most usual request from someone he just interviewed for three hours, but. Isak isn’t one to say no to half an hour extra to perfect his article. </p><p>He shrugs. “Sure.”</p><p>It shows to be a futile plan. The receptionist gifts them with her most patient, polite smile as she explains that all flights have been cancelled due to the weather—as if neither of them has checked their phones for the past three hours. Which they haven’t.</p><p>“Fuck.” Even glances out the windows, to the white wall outside. “I have to call my agent.”</p><p>Isak sighs, and turns to the receptionist. “Do you have any rooms for tonight?”</p><p>They don’t. </p><p>Apart from the room Even’s agency booked for two nights since the interview was later in the day, there’s nothing. Isak’s searches across every thinkable booking site confirms that they were indeed the last ones to find out about this sudden change in weather: every single hotel room in the city seems to be occupied. The receptionist kindly calls a few nearby hotels, just in case, but to no avail.</p><p>Even’s show is cancelled, it appears, so naturally, he’ll be staying here. And thus, Isak has only one option. </p><p>He sighs, scrolling down his message app two, three, four pages until he finds his conversation with Philip. Their last messages were sent almost a year ago.</p><p>
  <em> I’m coming by to pick up the last of my stuff tomorrow at 15.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Ok. I’ll be at work by then but you can leave the key in the mailbox after. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Ok. I will. Take care. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You too. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yeah. Bye. </em>
</p><p>With a deep sigh, he starts typing. </p><p>
  <em> I know this is random, but </em>
</p><p>“Hey. Isak.” Isak looks up. “Where are you gonna stay?” </p><p>“Uh. I’m texting my ex to see if I can sleep at his place.” </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Yeah. He lives like, five hundred meters from here.”</p><p>“Really.” Even’s stare is intense. </p><p>“Really.”</p><p>“Or you could stay with me.” Even straightens up, hands in pockets. “I mean. I’m sure we could fit an extra bed in my room.”</p><p>Isak bites his lip.</p><p><em> This </em> is weird territory. Not-totally-professional territory definitely. At least five steps above sharing a taxi. </p><p>“Are you sure? I mean, I could easily-”</p><p>“I’m sure,” Even says quickly. “You can’t go out in this weather. You’ll get sick.”</p><p>Isak bites back a <em> that’s not how it works </em>and glances out the window again, at the white wall of snow whirling outside. </p><p>It gives the illusion of a shield, a bubble. Like that time in fifth grade when there was a snowstorm and school was closed for two days, and it felt like everything was put on hold. As if there was a kind of martial law.</p><p>“Okay.” He shrugs and shoves his phone in his pocket. </p><p>“Yeah?” Even’s eyes gleam in the warm light of the lobby’s lamps.</p><p>“Yeah. As long as you don’t force me to listen to some weird Ethiopian jazz or something.” </p><p>“You’d <em> love </em> Ethiopian jazz.” Even grins, walking backward toward the reception desk. “You just haven’t listened under...proper circumstances.”</p><p>Even’s already turned toward reception, but Isak squints his eyes at his back anyway. </p><p>
  <em> Proper circumstances. </em>
</p><p>As they reach the elevators, Even turns, toes tapping the carpet. “Can I ask you something before we go up?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>“When we’re up there, could we, like, not work? I guess there’s no such thing as on or off the record, but it’s a whole night and. Would it be okay for you to just…”</p><p>“It’s okay.” Isak replies without thinking. “I really don’t want to work anymore today anyway.”</p><p>Even’s laugh is equal parts amused and relieved. “Me neither actually.”</p><p>“I promise.” Isak holds out his hand. “Whatever you say will stay in there.”</p><p>“Cool.” Even smiles.</p><p>Isak smiles back. “So… Maybe you want some alone time. I could go eat in the restaurant, or-”</p><p>“Nah. Let’s order room service,” Even says, backing into the elevator. </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>“It’s your room too now.” Even shrugs and presses the panel, long back turned against Isak. There’s a lock of hair curling around the bumps of his spine, and fuck. Isak is so fucked.</p><p>One night. He can do this. Can he?</p><p>There are four Carlsbergs in the minibar, and they grab one each, settling into the chairs where they sat before, but this time, their feet go up on the table. Isak’s shoes are long, but Even’s are even longer, almost ridiculously so—Even peeks out from between them like they’re windshields, smiling tentatively. </p><p>The silence that settles is different from the ones during the interview. It has no clear end; there’s no expectation of who asks and who answers. </p><p>“Music,” Even says eventually. “We should have music.”</p><p>“Great idea.” Isak lifts his hips to squeeze his phone out of his pocket. There’s one notification from Noora, a couple from his group chat with the boys, and several from the news app. He quickly pulls up the one from Noora—apparently she’s managed to book him into the 9.15 flight tomorrow—and then ignores the rest in favor of Spotify. </p><p>“Play something you listened to when you were 17,” Even says.</p><p>“Sure.” Isak’s thumb hovers over the search window. </p><p>This would be where 17-year-old Isak would play it cool and drop some obscure indie Even would’ve never heard of. </p><p>Today’s Isak, however, takes another sip of beer and decides that he doesn’t have to pretend that hard. Not tonight.</p><p>He finds “Lullaby” quickly, pressing play, and watches as Even smiles in appreciation. “The Cure? Nice.”</p><p>He’s quite sure 17-year-old Isak would feel just as satisfied at Even’s approval. </p><p>“You were a fan too?”</p><p>“Mm.” Even nods, toes wiggling with the staccato rhythm. “Even if no one else in my school was.”</p><p>“Wasn’t that the whole point?” Isak grins. “Like, if I’d found out that anyone in my class liked the Cure, I would have switched favorites immediately.”</p><p>“Were you that kind of teenager?”</p><p>“I was.” Isak grins. “Obnoxious.”</p><p>“I’d like to have seen that.” Even’s eyes glitter. “Were you a dick to your parents?”</p><p>Isak picks at the label of his beer. “Who wasn’t?”</p><p>“True,” Even says, expression suddenly serious. “Though I used to think that I was…kind of an unwilling dick to them. You know, by being manic and putting them through all sorts of stuff…normal parents don’t have to deal with.”</p><p>“That’s not being a dick though.” Isak looks up. “Or teenage rebellion.”</p><p>“Yeah. I’ve kinda figured that out by now.” Even looks up. “But…lately, I’ve kind of realized that all this-” He gestures out into the room. “-maybe compensated for it?”</p><p>“So you’re still a teenager at heart? Is that what you’re saying?”</p><p>Even throws his head back, suddenly back to laughing. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”</p><p>“I guess we’re both overgrown 17-year-olds then.” Isak shrugs. “I mean, rock journalist wasn’t exactly on top of my mamma’s wish list.”</p><p>“It’s a teenager’s job to disappoint their parents.”</p><p>“Who said that? Kim Gordon?”</p><p>“She could have. But no. It was my therapist actually. When I was, like, 18.”</p><p>“Cool therapist.” Isak bites his lip. “I wish someone had told me that when I was 18.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Even nods. “Imagine if every teenager had a therapist to tell them wise things.”</p><p>“They’d hate it.”</p><p>“True.” Even laughs again, then taps the sole of Isak’s foot with his own. “Hey. It’s my turn to choose the song.”</p><p>Even types with two thumbs, long fingers clasping around the back of Isak’s phone as a dreamy-sounding guitar loop starts playing.</p><p>“‘Teenage Riot.’” Isak grins. “Of course.”</p><p>“This album is so good. Kim’s like, the coolest person ever.” A deep sigh. “I’m still not over Thurston cheating on her like that.”</p><p>“Me neither.” Isak hasn’t given their divorce a lot of thought but he’s willing to go along with almost anything Even says right now. “This album is great though. But my favorite Sonic Youth album was <em> Goo.” </em></p><p>He thinks of himself at 17 again, going down the slopes of Grefsen overlooking the city. Those short stretches of freedom between home and school, walking and walking with his headphones on, screaming dissonance turned up to the max, imagining. </p><p>“How come you know about all this stone-age music too?”</p><p>“My sister. She was three years older. And for a while, she was the coolest person in the world.”</p><p>Even nods slowly. “That's how it is.”</p><p>“And you?”</p><p>“I had a really cool aunt. Hey, let’s toast.”</p><p>“Okay?”</p><p>“To the cool women who made us cool too.”</p><p>Isak laughs, a bit surprised. It’s a warm laugh. It feels right. “To them.”</p><p>They empty their bottles, both setting them down as the song fades out. </p><p>“Another one?” Isak nods sideways to the minibar. </p><p>“Yeah.” There’s a hesitant tone to it though. “Although I have another idea. Wait a little.”</p><p>Even walks over to the open suitcase at the foot of the bed, rummaging around, his long back bent like a C, his soft washed-out t-shirt riding up a little to expose the knobs of his spine at his lower back. Isak doesn’t avert his gaze in time when Even suddenly turns, and feels his cheeks flush a little. If Even notices, however, he doesn’t show it—just holds up a long, tightly rolled joint with raised eyebrows.</p><p>Isak thinks of smoke detectors. Of professionalism. Of his early flight tomorrow. </p><p>He smiles, Even’s responding grin spurring him on so that it grows wider, stretching. </p><p>Finally, he nods. “Cool.”</p><p>The storm has faded into stillness, to large, soft snowflakes falling slowly and soundlessly to the fluffy white ground. There are big bumps in the street, snowed-over cars like little hills down there, shrouded in the streetlamps’ bleak orange light. As Even carefully works the window open, a gust of freezing air hits Isak’s face. He puts on Pixies’ “Debaser<em> , </em>” and ignores the cold.</p><p>It’s a sight in itself, seeing Even fiddle with the lighter and the joint with long, slim fingers. To see him lean forward and blow the smoke out through rounded lips at the crack of the window. Cheekbones and jaw like they’re drawn in sharp marker as he inhales, sucking his cheeks in. </p><p>Isak has to lean halfway over Even to be able to smoke out the window. It’s not by choice; the proximity is a necessity and Isak doesn’t have to put any weight to the fact that Even’s knee is touching his elbow. That Isak has to almost press his chest against Even’s calf. </p><p>Even’s fingers thrum against his knee with the drums, walking them up Isak’s arm to squeeze it on Frank Black’s <em> I want you to KNOW. </em>It takes all of Isak’s focus not to drop the joint in the snow below.</p><p>He hands it over, coughing slightly, and when Even’s taken another drag he coughs too. They both laugh, Even a little apologetically.</p><p>“Fuck. So much for my rockstar persona.”</p><p>“You mean you don’t smoke up and drink around the clock?”</p><p>“Not really.” Even motions for Isak to take the joint, cold fingers brushing. “I save it for special occasions.”</p><p>“Special occasions.” Isak nods. “So tonight’s show was gonna be one then, I guess.”</p><p>“Yes.” Even nods, fiddling with the lighter in one hand. “But this is a special occasion too. Don’t you think?</p><p>Isak can’t think of a good enough reason to object. He takes another drag, and smiles. “It is.”</p><p>When the joint is finished, they both sit back in the windowsill. It’s a tall window, but not very wide—forcing them to intertwine their legs if they’re gonna sit up. Just like before, at the table,  only closer, knees knocking into each other from time to time. The window is closed, and the snowfall is lighter still. </p><p>How will Even dress for bed, Isak wonders. Is he gonna sleep in that t-shirt, or in something else? And how will Isak ever manage to fold down that extra bed? His limbs are so heavy.</p><p>“Loverman” starts playing. Isak had forgotten that he added it to the queue. Even starts singing as the chorus comes in, his deep baritone countering Nick Cave’s desperate yells, and there’s a swoop in the pit of Isak’s stomach.</p><p>The streetlamp outside makes Even’s face look weirdly angled, orange light and grey shadows giving it an eerie shade. It befits the music almost too well. </p><p>“It’s your turn.” He hands the phone over to Even, barely having to stretch for Even’s long arm to reach it.</p><p>Even sends him a small, quizzical smile. “I almost forgot.”</p><p>“Forgot what?”</p><p>“This.” A weirdly dissonant jazz flute starts playing, the tip of Even’s tongue teasing between his teeth. </p><p>“Fuck.” Isak rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead. “The Ethiopian thingy.”</p><p><em> “Thingy?” </em>Even laughs. “Are you really a music journalist?”</p><p>“Fuck off.” Isak rolls his eyes, but Even’s laugh is so infectious. “It’s just…I don’t always sleep very well, and when I was in uni, my roommate...she used to listen to this all the time. All night. I’d lie there in my bed trying to get some sleep and this just haunted me through the wall. All the fucking time.”</p><p>“Don’t you like it now then? Close your eyes and listen. Just a little.”</p><p>Isak sighs in demonstration, but leans back against the wall. He’s heard this song a thousand times, but. If Even really wants him to, he’ll give it a try. And—fine. It <em> is </em> kind of fascinating: the different tunes blending into each other, drifting apart and meeting in the middle. It fits the room, the snow, the night. A not-quite-believable dream.</p><p>“I kind of get its appeal,” he finally admits. </p><p>“I love it,” Even says, grinning. </p><p>“Of course you do. I bet you like all kinds of weird shit.”</p><p>“Oh, definitely.” Even shoots him an indecipherable grin. “You remember his name?”</p><p>“This? Mula...Mutta…”</p><p>The white of Even’s teeth glitter in the light of the streetlamp. “Mulatu Astatke.”</p><p>“Assstattkeee.” Isak lets it slither off his tongue. It doesn’t feel bad. </p><p>It doesn’t feel bad at all.</p><p>The song fades out, and suddenly, there’s another one starting—a much quicker electronic rhythm. Bells, horns, a familiar female voice.</p><p>“Beyoncé?” Isak stares at Even, incredulous. “Who even are you?”</p><p>“No shit talking Queen Bey on my watch,” Even says, chin down. “This is a great song. Listen.”</p><p>“I’ve already listened to Mutta whatever. And it’s my turn.”</p><p>Even raises his eyebrows, but it’s weak, and he hands Isak the phone in silence.</p><p>“Fucking finally.” Isak rolls his eyes. </p><p>From the corner of his eye, he can see Even’s smile turn delighted, gaze on Isak as he types.</p><p>“Am I finally getting something that isn’t from before we both were born?”</p><p>“Shut up. It’s newer than...that jazz stuff of yours anyway.”</p><p>As the first notes of “To Bring You My Love” start playing, Even nods in appreciation. “PJ Harvey. Nice.”</p><p>“Another of my sister’s favorites.” Isak looks up. ”But the Cure was her number one. She used to wear that heavy eyeliner just like Robert Smith and spike her hair up.”</p><p>“Did you? Wear eyeliner to school?” </p><p>“Fuck no.” Isak laughs. “I just walked around in jeans and a hoodie and tried to pass as the average straight guy.”</p><p>“But you were cool on the inside.” </p><p>“So cool.” Isak lifts his eyebrows. “You have no idea.”</p><p>“The coolest.” Even’s eyes crinkle again. </p><p>“Yup.” Isak lifts his chin, keeping his gaze locked on Even’s. </p><p>They sit, silent, listening. Even’s toes nod in rhythm to the jumpy guitar notes. He’s wearing a pair of blue socks with yellow pineapples on them, and Isak can’t stop looking. It’s so weird and at the same time fitting for who Even is. Someone that Isak, for once, can’t wrap his head around. </p><p>Hypothetically, they could have met when they were young. Still in high school. Ran into each other at some pretentious Elvebakken party a reluctant Isak would have been dragged to by his friends. Some bar in Løkka, backstage on the job.</p><p>Imagine, Isak thinks, if this had happened to him at 17. How impossibly thrilling it would have been, how breathtaking. </p><p>Isak wonders what time it is. If they should eat. If he’s even sober enough to call room service. If he ever wants to move away from this windowsill.</p><p>“This could be a movie.” Even sighs, casting a glance out the window, to the heavy curtain of large fluffy snowflakes falling. </p><p>“Snowed in at a fancy hotel? Sounds like a cheesy...romantic comedy or something.” Isak snorts more pointedly than he means to. </p><p>“What’s wrong with that?” Even gives him another long stare.</p><p>“Romantic comedies? You like them?” </p><p>“You’re absolutely right.” There’s the crinkle of eyes again. “I do.” </p><p>“<em> Titanic </em> . <em> Sleepless in Seattle </em>.”</p><p>“Absolutely.”</p><p>
  <em> “Hachiko.” </em>
</p><p>“<em> Hachiko </em>?!” Even stares at him, incredulous. “No way. That’s not even cheesy, that’s just bullshit.”</p><p>“Phew. I thought maybe I’d have to go sleep in the ironing room or something.”</p><p>“Good thing you won’t.” Even relaxes back again, long arm resting on his knee, large hand dangling in front of Isak in allure. His eyes are so bright in the reflection of the snow, they almost look grey. </p><p>“I don’t get why that...dog thing is so appealing though.” Isak frowns. “Why does everyone love a movie with a dog?”</p><p>“Not a dog person?”</p><p>“Nah.” Isak shrugs. “I want a cat.”</p><p>“A black cat.” </p><p>“How did you know?”</p><p>“From reading your hand, of course.” Even laughs. “I don’t. I’m just guessing.”</p><p>“Maybe you’re not a hand reader, but a decent people reader.”</p><p>“Yeah. Maybe. Perhaps, in another life, I would have made films instead of music.”</p><p>Isak nods. He can see it actually. How Even’s mind might make up the most intricate storylines, threads coming together in the middle to form an irregular but beautiful web. </p><p>“So. Your big movie. What would it be like?” </p><p>Even watches him for a moment. A long, silent gaze. If they were smoking still, but inside, the wisps of smoke might curl around his face, frame it in blue and grey. Isak wonders if Even could blow smoke rings. What it would look like—those lips in a perfect full circle.</p><p>“It would be like this.”</p><p>Isak is seldom lost for words. Seldom privately, and certainly never professionally. But this—it’s like he’s 17 again, shook and stunned in the face of someone he isn’t sure how to read. </p><p>“Would it?” He swallows.</p><p>It sounds a bit weak, but Even seems unfazed. “Yes.”</p><p>Isak watches Even’s face, his open, unabashed stare. “Would it be a cheesy movie?”</p><p>Even’s eyes glitter. “Yes.”</p><p>“Tell me.” Isak sits up, daring a small shuffle forward. “What would happen next in this pretentious cheesy movie of ours?”</p><p>“I don’t know yet.” Even sits up straighter but doesn’t let up on his gaze, locked on Isak’s even as he tilts his head. “It’s like I told you before. You’ll have to wait and see.”</p><p>There’s a professional part of Isak’s brain that tells him now would be the moment to push. That now, loosened up by weed, could be where he can coax more information out of Even. </p><p>He examines the thought for a moment, and then, he lets it go. Lets it float away somewhere to the side, the unimportant parts of the room where Even isn’t. </p><p><em> What if I don’t want to wait, </em> the not-so-professional part of Isak thinks. <em> What if I want you to show me. </em></p><p>For a second, he thinks he can see Even shift, as if he’s going to lean forward. </p><p>Then—the sound of a phone ringing.</p><p>“My agent. Fuck.” Even rolls his eyes. “Just a sec.”</p><p>He stumbles to the floor ungracefully, all stoned, clumsy limbs, and picks up his phone from the table. “Hello? Yeah. I know. Yes, but-”</p><p>He sends Isak an apologetic, elongated look before he wanders out in the narrow hallway with the phone pressed to his ear. </p><p>As Even’s voice trails off, Isak faintly considers if he should take the opportunity to have a closer look at Even’s things, his notes, the contents of his open suitcase. He’d probably be allowed—Even hasn’t bothered to put anything away at least—but it would feel like breaking their deal. </p><p>Plus, that bed looks really fucking comfortable.</p><p>He’s not gonna fall asleep or anything. And it’s definitely not like he’s getting any ideas—the still unopened extra bed stands at the far wall, like a looming reminder. </p><p>He’s a professional. He is. </p><p>But the weed is singing through his limbs, making them all heavy, and so he falls onto the unmade bed, on its many pillows and its halfway folded back grey satin spread. Lying there, listening to the faint murmur of Even’s deep voice from the hallway, he stretches the tips of his fingers up the padded headboard, just to see if he can reach the top. </p><p>His arms feel so long. Almost as long as Even’s arms. </p><p>Fuck. He must be a little high still.</p><p>“I wanted to ask you something, but you look busy.” Even’s voice is suddenly close, and Isak whips his head to the side to see Even throw his phone on the bed, grinning.</p><p>“Shit.” Breath in his throat, he lets his arms fall down. “You scared me.” </p><p>“Did you forget about me?” Even laughs, eyes sparkling with mirth as he climbs up on the bed and lies down on his side, facing Isak. </p><p>It’s not a narrow bed by any means, but they’re much closer now than when they sat in the windowsill. Close enough for Isak to notice additional details in Even’s face. Little things he’d missed. For instance how long Even’s lashes are in the warm yellow light of the bedside lamp, or how there’s a hint of fading freckles on the bridge of his nose. A memory from his South European tour, probably.</p><p>“Of course I didn’t.” Isak rolls his eyes.</p><p>“I don’t mind lying here though. This is nice.”</p><p>Isak stretches, rolling up on his side. “Quite a great bed. I might steal it.”</p><p>“Okay? So where should I sleep?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I heard their guest beds are excellent.”</p><p>“I was under the impression that <em> I </em> invited <em> you </em> in here as my guest, but fine.”</p><p>“It’s my room now too.” Isak lifts his chin, grinning. “You made that pretty clear, I think.”</p><p>“You’re right.” Even looks up to the side. “I did.”</p><p>Then he redirects his gaze to meet Isak’s, mouth open and an apprehensive gleam to his eyes. </p><p>Suddenly, it’s very quiet. No music. No traffic outside. Nothing, only the sound of Isak’s own breathing, his own pulse a rapid flutter in his ear.</p><p>The thing is, Isak doesn’t get nervous. Not anymore. Not while dating, or in professional situations. Not in interviews, not in bed. And still, the air between them is so heavy that it makes him want to look away. He doesn’t know how to carry it.</p><p>“You wanted to ask me something,” he says finally. </p><p>“Yeah.” Even’s voice has dropped another couple of notes. “I, uh, forgot what it was.”</p><p>“Did you now.”</p><p>“I was busy.”</p><p>“Busy how?”</p><p>“I was trying to picture you with eyeliner. And spikey Robert Smith hair.”</p><p>Isak laughs, surprised. “I told you I never had that.”</p><p>“Too bad. It might have suited you. In my head, it does.”</p><p>“I had dreadlocks for a while though.”</p><p>“No.” Even’s eyes widen, almost comically. “You didn’t.”</p><p>“Yup. Before I cut my long hair off at 15. My sister and her friend made them.”</p><p>Even’s gaze darts down to Isak’s shoulders. “Oh my god.”</p><p>“They went all the way down to my butt.”</p><p>Even lifts his hand. For a second, Isak thinks Even is going to touch him, but he doesn’t, only lets it fall down on the bed between them. “Fuck.”</p><p>It’s funny, how during three hours worth of interviewing, during a good while of drinking and smoking and teasing, Even has seemed totally unfazed at whatever Isak has said. And now, he looks thrown, all round eyes and astonishment. Isak definitely didn’t wake this morning thinking he’d end the day in bed with this man and think of him as <em> adorable, </em>but that is exactly what is happening. </p><p>The laughter bubbling out of Isak at the realization makes Even look up.</p><p>“Even. Relax.” Once he’s started laughing, Isak just keeps going. It’s a full-body giggle that pulls at his mouth and jerks him forward, almost into Even’s space. Not that it’s so funny—he just doesn’t know how to stop. “I’m—fucking with you.”</p><p>“Fuck.” Next, Even’s laughing too, jostling so close to Isak that their knees knock and Even’s elbow touches Isak’s lower arm. “Okay. I’ll give it to you. You’re <em> really </em>good.”</p><p>“I am.” Isak lifts his chin up, triumphant.</p><p>He watches Even’s smile bloom, sharp canine sinking into his lower lip and Isak doesn’t even register Even’s hand moving until it’s in his hair. Suddenly, there’s Even’s fingers tracing the shell of his ear, and Isak stills, breathless.</p><p>“I wonder what it would have looked like though.” The heel of Even’s palm rests lightly on Isak’s jaw. “Your hair is beautiful.”</p><p>Isak doesn’t think of the Blondie song. He doesn’t think of his flight the next morning, or the article he won’t be writing on his couch tonight. He doesn’t think of anything at all as he lifts his own hand, grips Even’s wrist to keep it still and kisses the inside of it.</p><p>The thin, warm skin just above the leather band of his watch. </p><p>It’s so quiet, Even’s so still, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Only watches Isak with those intense, unblinking eyes. He looks so expectant that Isak kisses his palm too. His thumb, and Even lets it trace Isak’s upper lip, that w-shaped bow that Isak’s never particularly liked. Even touches it like it’s beautiful though. Like it’s worth his attention.</p><p>“Is this okay?” The gentle rasp of Even’s voice vibrates between them. “Off the record?”</p><p>Isak doesn’t think this time either. “It is.”</p><p>The gentle press of Even’s fingers under his jaw makes Isak give, and finally, he turns his face up to kiss Even on the mouth.</p><p>Isak isn’t even that high anymore, or maybe he is but doesn’t feel it; he has no patience for anything but Even’s lips on his. His fingers in Isak’s hair, Isak’s hand around his neck. His long, slender, lovely neck, the bumps of his spine new and exciting under Isak’s palm.</p><p>Vaguely, Isak knows that this isn’t maybe the best idea, but, seriously. It’s whatever. </p><p>Nobody else needs to know how it feels when he opens his mouth and sucks Even’s lower lip in, how soft and plush it is between his own. The pleased little sound Even makes when Isak bites it lightly. How easily Even gives out under him and rolls up on his back, letting Isak hover over him.</p><p>He lifts himself up on his elbows to gaze down at Even. Just for a second’s afterthought, an exit if Even needs one. </p><p>Isak doesn’t. It might be the weed, or it might be the thrilling secrecy of their snowed-in shelter—or maybe it’s just Even, long and pale and lovely and staring up at Isak with wondrous eyes. His hair is a mess on the pillow, his cheeks flushed, and there’s already an oval red mark on the side of his neck where Isak’s thumb pressed down just seconds earlier.</p><p>His skin must be so delicate. Is it like that everywhere, Isak wonders. Will he be able to leave his mark upon Even just as easily in other places too? On his stomach? The soft inside of his thigh?</p><p>These are stoned thoughts, Isak knows this. It doesn’t make them any less immediate. </p><p>“I’m gonna kiss you again now,” Isak says, and Even smiles in encouragement, tilting his head a little to the side. </p><p>Isak’s always liked kissing, sure. It’s not his favorite thing about intimacy, always more of a prelude to sex, but it’s nice. Even, though—Even kisses Isak like it’s his favorite thing in the world. Slow and openmouthed and curious, lips enveloping Isak’s as if he can't get enough of their taste. </p><p>Even’s thumb comes up to pull at his lip, and Isak mouths at it. Bites lightly on the tip until Even gets the hint and slips it inside. </p><p>The calloused tip tickles at Isak’s tongue—his guitar playing finger, Isak thinks, closes his lips around it and sucks. It makes Even hum and roll up on his side, Isak following, hooking his leg over Even’s hip, close, closer.</p><p>Isak would think that this is where they’d shove a hand in each other’s pants hurriedly, without undressing. Quickly, efficiently, get each other off. And after, zip themselves up, get food, sleep, say bye in the morning. The usual.</p><p>Even doesn’t seem to be in any haste though. He molds himself like water against Isak, spindly limbs surprisingly pliable as he wraps them around Isak’s back. His movements are just as intense as his stares; he kisses with emphasis, grabs Isak’s hair with afterthought. Lazily, but with intent. As if every detail counts.</p><p>When he lifts Isak’s shirt off, he does it slowly, as if he doesn’t want to ruffle it or mess up Isak’s hair. Big eyes as he looks down at Isak’s chest and shoulders, flattening his palms on them, pushing, and Isak lets him. </p><p>Now he’s the one on his back, hands above his head, Even’s palms pressing his elbows down into the bed. His jeans are still on, uncomfortably tight—he can just about lift his legs and lock them around Even’s thighs. Holding him close, pressing up against him, not knowing exactly where he wants to take this, only that he wants. Even might be perfectly content just letting this continue in some leisurely cloudy haze, but Isak isn’t. He’s done waiting.</p><p>“You’re so hot,” Even whispers, nose touching Isak’s. “And strong,” he adds as Isak tenses his arms, pushing up at Even’s hands to let him feel it. “Fuck.”</p><p>“Let me up and I’ll show you.”</p><p>“Fuck yes,” Even breathes and falls down on his side, arms slack above his head. Isak wastes no time, opens Even’s jeans with one hand and reaches for his wrists with the other. </p><p>Even might have the largest hands Isak has ever seen, but his wrists are surprisingly slender—narrow enough for Isak to just about grab them with one hand. A sigh escapes Even as Isak presses them down into the mattress, sneaking his other hand into Even’s pants. </p><p>“You’re really fucking hot too,” Isak whispers.</p><p>Isak’s had his hand on a lot of dicks. It’s a simple fact, nothing he is particularly proud of or ashamed about. He knows how to touch other people, how to make them feel good, and he knows what he likes himself. </p><p>It’s not often he’s met with this kind of enthusiasm though. Even presses up against him immediately, with a tiny groan, Isak’s hand sliding down with ease along his thick, hard cock, wet at the tip and curving slightly to the left. There’s not much finesse to the way Isak twists his wrist and works it, but Even thrusts up into his fist as if he’s waited for it for years. His kisses aren’t hurried, but hungry—pleased little sounds escaping him as he searches for Isak’s lips with fervor and sucks at the tip of his tongue.</p><p>Isak lies rolled up halfway over Even now, flattening him out on his back with Isak hovering over him. Even’s wrists twitch a little in his grip, and when Isak presses down on them to keep them in place, Even moans and bucks up into his fist, thick and hot and desperate.</p><p>In a way, Isak wishes he could see all of Even. Take off his clothes to find out if that pale skin is as smooth everywhere. If those beauty marks are scattered over his chest as well as over his face. If the hairs on his belly are as soft and blonde as the ones on his head. </p><p>To see what Even’s cock looks like in his hand. The red tip of it, the precome smearing out over Isak’s palm.</p><p>But Isak’s not gonna let go now. Not when Even whimpers and chases Isak’s touch as if he’s trying to crawl inside him.</p><p>It doesn’t last long, probably only minutes. Isak has no clue. He only knows this: that he holds Even down, safe and firm and so close, lets Even use Isak’s hand as he pleases and kisses him, kisses him, kisses him.</p><p>When Even comes, it’s with a drawn-out, continuous sigh, and when Isak’s hand turns wet and warm with Even's release, it feels like an endearment. A gift.</p><p>He lifts up, hand still down Even’s pants, and watches his closed eyes, his damp lashes. His full lips, red from all the kissing. The flush on his no longer pale cheeks. </p><p>He’s so lovely. </p><p>There’s just no other way to put it. It’s even enough for Isak to forget his own throbbing need for a short while, and when he remembers it, it surprises him. He wouldn’t imagine being content with just looking.</p><p>As he lets Even’s wrists go and sits up, he starts looking for something to dry his hand on, but Even calls him back.</p><p>“Look at me,” Even says, voice rough. “Wait.”</p><p>Isak watches him in confusion, but doesn’t protest when Even starts opening his pants with clumsy hands. </p><p>“I want to watch you,” Even whispers. “Can I?”</p><p>“Fuck yes.” </p><p>Isak’s rewarded with a lick of lips and a fucked-out, glassy stare. If he could come from a look alone, it might be this one.</p><p>It isn’t exactly elegant, but somehow Even manages to work Isak’s jeans and underwear down mid-thigh and then down to his knees, allowing Isak to wiggle out of them and kick them down the bed. Even gets rid of his own shirt quickly in the meantime, throwing it to the side, then stretching out his arms to welcome Isak back.</p><p>Even’s come is still warm in Isak’s hand as he climbs over him to sit across his stomach, thighs boxing Even in.</p><p>The best part isn’t even wrapping his wet fingers around himself; it’s Even’s delighted, wondrous stare as he does. Those lively eyes shining with fascination as Isak starts jerking himself off, straight up to make sure Even can see. And this—Even’s large hands slowly sliding up Isak’s thighs, holding his hips. His thumbs stroking Isak’s abs as if they’re a revelation. Something worthy of Even’s admiration and caress.</p><p>Even, who’s always the one being watched, admired, by everyone—watching him. </p><p>It won’t take long for him to finish, Isak is highly aware of this. The lingering remnants of his high help, sure, but mostly it’s just due to Even. His lovely, lovely face, his smooth chest and long neck. His admiring touches all over Isak’s chest, shoulders, sides.</p><p>Isak leans forward, one hand on Even’s shoulder to steady himself, gaze locked on Even’s as he feels the surge of his orgasm rise at the base of his spine. </p><p>“Come on me,” Even whispers, and closes his hand around Isak’s fist.</p><p>After that, it only takes seconds. Together, they push Isak off the edge, hot come painting the flat expanse of Even’s chest, the straight line of his collarbone. </p><p>Slowly, Isak rubs it into Even’s skin, the slick glide of his fingertips so easy as he leans down to kiss Even again, and again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Can I ask you something?”</p><p>It’s late. Later. The curtains are drawn, the mountains of snow outside invisible. The bed is unmade again, all of it, bedspread and cushions discarded on the floor somewhere together with their clothes. At the far wall, the extra bed stands unopened and forgotten, and Even’s things are still spread out everywhere across the room.</p><p>They’ve had far more urgent things to do than pack.</p><p>Isak has no idea what time it is. Too late, probably, to be awake. Darkness fills out the corners of the room, the only source of light the bedside lamp. Even’s fingers walk the ridge of Isak’s shoulder blade where he lies on his stomach, face flat on Even’s chest. The skin there’s still damp from their shared shower, the rise and fall of it soothing like a lullaby. </p><p>Isak’s jaw is still aching from when he took Even in his mouth in the bathroom, his throat a little sore, and there are probably marks on his hips from where Even held on to them, hard, pressing Isak against the tiled wall as he returned the favor. </p><p>He hopes the marks won’t fade for days. A palpable memory that he'll get to keep, even if it's just a little while.</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“If I told you I was moving back to Oslo…would you want to meet me?”</p><p>Isak lifts his head. “You’re moving back.”</p><p>“Uh. Yeah. But, like. Off the record.”</p><p>“Of course it is.” Isak looks down at Even’s face, at the careful bite of his lip. “Right? You know that.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“It’s not like I’m going to write about any of…this either.”</p><p>Isak gestures vaguely to their side, and it makes Even laugh. Short and sweet, before he lifts a hand to Isak’s cheek. “I believe you. But…would you? Meet me?”</p><p>“Not sure. Depends on what kind of music we’ll listen to.”</p><p>“Only the best kind.”</p><p>“In that case...yes.”</p><p>Even smiles, thumb sliding down to Isak’s jaw. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Cool.” Even’s eyes glitter, his finger tracing Isak’s collarbone, out to his shoulder, then up his neck.</p><p>“Are you going to work tomorrow when you get back?” </p><p>“Yeah. Why?”</p><p>“No reason. I just…I guess I just wonder what your day looks like. If you’re gonna go home, or go out to see friends, or just work.”</p><p>Isak sighs. “I probably have to go straight to the office and start writing. Noora—my editor—well. She’s the meticulous kind.”</p><p>“Yeah, Sana’s made <em> that </em> much clear.” Even laughs, and then turns silent abruptly, lips pursing and eyes going round in an instant.</p><p>“Sana.” Isak snaps his head up. “Sana Bakkoush.”</p><p>Even bites his lip. </p><p>“What the fuck.” Isak lifts himself up on his arms. “You know <em> Sana?” </em></p><p>“I, uh. Went to school with her brother. Elias?”</p><p>Even looks like he tries to sink down through the pillow, expression so guilty that Isak laughs. </p><p>“You knew. Who I was.”</p><p>“Uh...a little?”</p><p>“A little?” Isak raises his eyebrows. </p><p>“Come on.” The glitter has returned to Even’s eyes. “I can’t have just anyone come and interview me for three hours.” </p><p>“You asked for me.” </p><p>“Of course I did.” The grin blooming on Even’s face isn’t sheepish anymore, but delighted. “You’re not the only slick one in this room, Isak. I can do research too.”</p><p>Isak scoots up, coming to sit across Even’s thighs. He leans forward to plant his hands on either side of Even’s head. “You gave the only interview to us.”</p><p>“To you.” </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I thought that would be pretty obvious by now.” </p><p>Isak watches Even, the sharp line of his jaw. “Tell me.”</p><p>“Well.” Even lifts his chin up. “It needed to be the hot guy.”</p><p>“Really.”</p><p>“Yes. The hottest.”</p><p>Isak’s hands find Even’s. “So. Was it worth your efforts?”</p><p>“You mean the twenty times I have promised Sana to babysit in return? Absolutely.”</p><p>“Twenty.” Isak stares at him, incredulous. “You really couldn’t wait to meet me.”</p><p>“You’re absolutely right.” Even’s hand comes up around his neck. “Will you come with me?”</p><p>“To babysit those two little monsters? No way.”</p><p>Even laughs, before his face turns calm again. “We could do something else?”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Like…I could make you dinner. At my place.”</p><p>“In Oslo?”</p><p>Even nods. “Yes. In Oslo.”</p><p>Isak pretends like he’s considering, tip of his index finger on his chin. “Okay. Fine. If I get to choose the music.”</p><p>“Okay. Just a little Ethiopian jazz then.”</p><p>“No fucking way.”</p><p>“But didn’t you-”</p><p>Isak shuts him up, very efficiently, with a kiss and a press of hips. </p><p>The bedside lamp stays lit until it’s nearing dawn. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It isn’t until Isak sits on the plane that he remembers. They’re soon lifting off, the stewardesses already demonstrating the safety routine in the aisle, but he risks sneaking out his phone anyway.</p><p><em> I forgot to tell you </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Your hair looks okay too </em></p><p>Even’s response is near-immediate. A selfie from a taxi, with eyes squinting at the sun. In the background, outside the car window, Isak can spot white snow in glittering heaps.</p><p><em> You can tell me again when I see you </em><br/>
<em> I’d love to hear you say it </em> <em><br/>
</em>in that sexy serious reporter voice of yours</p><p>Less than twenty-four hours ago, Isak was on this very flight, only in the opposite direction, expecting to return home only hours later with nothing more gained than a far-too-big audio file and a headache.</p><p>And now, there’s this. </p><p>Another message comes through.</p><p>
  <em> On Saturday? after the show? </em>
</p><p>The security runthrough is over. The plane is picking up speed, the sound of its motors deafening. </p><p>Isak types quickly before he has to put his phone away. He makes it at the last possible second, heart beating quickly as he presses send.</p><p>He closes his eyes, and thinks of their goodbye kiss in the hallway of the hotel room. Of the soft but sure promise of Even’s lips. All the places on his body where Isak longs to place new kisses, all the marks he’ll leave on his skin. All the gentle declarations.</p><p>
  <em>Yes. Saturday. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! You can find me on <a href="https://irazor.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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